


spinning on that dizzy edge

by wherehefoundtheporcupine



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Neverland, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Denial, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Past abuse (very brief mention), Period-Typical Homophobia, Peter Jakes Didn't Leave Oxford, Peter fucks up, Peter smokes a lot, Post-Episode: s3e1 Ride, So is Bright, Stubborn, Thursday is lovely, but then its all fine, more like reluctant colleagues to lovers, my idiot sons get the happiness they deserve, opera dates, this was meant to be sad but I have no self-control
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-29 12:37:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19020079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wherehefoundtheporcupine/pseuds/wherehefoundtheporcupine
Summary: Morse had been back at the station for two days, and Peter Jakes was feeling reckless.





	spinning on that dizzy edge

Morse had been back at the station for two days, and Peter Jakes was feeling _reckless_. It seemed to be how he dealt with all his repressed feelings, this itch, this uncontrollable urge to screw everything up. Normally, it manifested itself in drinking himself silly back at his flat or taking a stranger home for a bit of fun. But this wasn’t normally. This was Morse.

Morse who, last time they properly talked, had learned more about him than he had any right to know.

It made Peter’s skin crawl, the very idea of what must cross Morse’s mind every time they made eye contact. He could feel the pity surging from him whenever he got too close, the words left unsaid piling up like a wall between them. Morse had become part of _that time_ now, something in his mind had bound them together and he couldn’t so much as look at his colleague without _feeling_ things on his skin that he had repressed long ago.

Admittedly, it was a lot better now than it had been amid the Blenheim Vale case. With Morse locked up, he felt it his duty to spend every waking hour he could on it, the guilt of his previous inaction eating away at him more and more each day Morse spent in prison. And, God, it was bloody awful; he’d forgotten what it was like to have this secret crawling beneath his skin as Bright and Thursday brought up Blenheim like it was _nothing_ to them. He felt the weight of Morse’s absence the most then; perhaps that was the one time when somebody _knowing_ was exactly what Peter needed.

Perhaps he could have talked about it. Or perhaps not; Morse wasn’t exactly the most understanding of people.

Looking into the corruptions in County were his only distraction from it all, really, because the regular cases weren’t the same without Morse poking his nose in, finding correlation where a normal person never could, somehow linking everything to bloody opera. Once Morse got out and disappeared to God-knows-where, the Blenheim shit was sealed up for half a century, time sort of stopped, and everything hit Peter like a bus. It felt like he smoked a hundred packs a day for that first week or so; he thought it would calm the nerves, or at least give the façade of such an effect.

At first, there was very little change, for Morse’s very absence reminded him of the man every time he arrived at work. That damn empty desk loomed over him like a dark shadow, he may as well have had ‘Blenheim’ tattooed on his forehead for the affect it had on him. However, soon, he settled into a new rhythm. He picked up Thursday every morning from his house, they drove in silence, both stubbornly ignoring the fact that _everything about this was wrong_. The two of them started ignoring the empty desk, and the painful, stinging silences left when they both expected Morse to interject became scarcer and scarcer. Peter stopped calling Morse’s name every time the phone wrung, instead answering it himself.

He began to compartmentalise. To package up the trailing ends of long-repressed memories and shove them away to the back of his mind where he would never have to cross them again. Confronting everything head on wasn’t his style (he favoured a strong drink and some pretty secretary) but that didn’t soften the blow of his nightmares. Even after he had drunken himself to pieces just to have a chance of getting some sleep, the dreams came to him in the early hours.

He felt like a boy again. Vulnerable, lost, faces hanging over him with sly expressions, the knowledge that there was nothing that could stop it all from happening. Sometimes, it would come to him in the middle of the day: he’d zone out as Thursday, Strange or Bright were talking to him, and he’d be utterly paralysed as he watched _those faces_ get closer and closer, he’d feel their words, hot on the back of his neck. Occasionally he would notice a concerned look in Thursday’s eyes, and of late the Inspector had taken to offering a coffee or a sandwich on days when Peter looked particularly sleep deprived. Maybe that’s how it felt to be Morse? Peter had to bite back his own jealousy.

Things settled, aside from the occasional “still no Morse, then?” from Bright. Peter was sleeping more, smoking marginally less, and he’d been seeing a bird called Hope from time to time who seemed to genuinely like him. Of course, it would all come to an end, that’s just how life works out.

Turns out he was living in a log cabin, hanging out with old Oxford friends and going to bloody masquerade balls with some prick called Bixby. It was the least _Morse_ thing he’d ever heard; he thought Thursday was having a funny turn when he broke the news.

Peter had felt a strange pang in his chest at the time, something at the back of his mind saying _you could have helped each other_. And it almost made sense; were they not two of the world’s most God-awful communicators, they might have been able to seek solace in each other’s words. Too bad they both favoured melodramatic brooding and copious amounts of scotch.

Morse being back at the station was a relief at first, but very quickly became absolute hell. Every inch of control Peter had gathered over the past few weeks, the way he had packed away the nightmarish memories, all of it was unravelled with just one look into the man’s eyes.

He was early in to work that day, meaning he was already busy typing up cases when Peter turned up. Despite knowing that Morse was coming back to the force, he was shocked and oddly warmed to see clutter filling the desk again. Peter thought he could do it. Smile through it, and all. Get used to Morse’s presence again and slip back into normality. But, of course, things didn’t work out that way, because Morse didn’t bloody _understand_.

If only he could tell him to let it be, to drop the not-so-secret glances, the politeness, the offers of tea or a slice of toast. Morse’s pity made him feel sick to his stomach.

So, yes, Peter Jakes was feeling reckless indeed.

His skin itched for some excitement to break the monotony of a Tuesday morning, for a sudden call to some break-in so that he could legally beat the shit out of someone. It was getting to the point where Peter thought he would scream if someone so much as said good morning to him.

Perhaps he could resign? Stamp out the letter in a couple of minutes, chuck it onto Bright’s desk and up sticks, leaving half-finished reports on his desk to no doubt be picked up by Morse. Maybe _he_ could go and live in a cabin in the woods this time, drink coffee by the lake, stare into the fire as evening fell all around him. He could move so far away that Oxford never crossed his mind.

America, perhaps.

Peter didn’t resign. Instead, he spent the day chain-smoking obsessively and staring at the top of Morse’s head as he typed. Christ, you’d have thought the man would learn how to type more than a word a bloody minute, given the amount of unfinished reports piled on his desk. Maybe that was why he stayed late every evening, shrugging off any offer of drinks or a lift home. Or, maybe, Morse was just _like that_.

Jakes made him a cup of tea at 11, out of boredom if nothing else. He knew how Morse liked it (strong, with only a dash of milk) but felt desperately tempted to put a few sugars in, just to piss him off. Just to create an argument out of nothing, somewhere to direct his nervous energy. He didn’t though; somehow this mid-morning quest for mild entertainment turned into Peter doing something genuinely nice. (He told himself Morse didn’t deserve it but, to be fair, it was just tea.)

By midday, he was bored again, mind-numbingly,  _murderously_ bored, even having emptied his packed of fags and made a slight dent in the ‘to do’ pile on his desk. An aimless wander around the station did very little to keep him awake and thus, on the way back to his desk, Peter swung past Morse.

“Wotcher.” He leant over Morse’s desk and hovered there for a moment. When Morse didn’t look up from his work, Peter bit back the urge to yell. “How’s work?” he forced out instead.

Morse gave him a withering look, but soon returns to the clutter of his desk. “Piss off, Jakes.”

“That’s piss off _Sergeant_ to you, thank you very much.”

“Haven’t you got anything else to be doing?”

“You wouldn’t either if you didn’t type like a six-year-old,” Peter huffed with a smirk. _This_ was more like it. An argument was all he needed. Too bad Morse had been rather tame since his return, or there would be much more for Peter to remark on. And it wouldn’t do to make a scrap out of nothing at risk of looking like an utter prick himself.

Although, the thought was looking more appealing by the minute.

Peter thought he was going insane by the time the station clock hit 2pm. The sun had reached a position where it was perfectly in line with the window that Jakes was facing, meaning it was utterly blinding to look up even for a second. And, on top of that, the heat was absolutely melting his brain. It couldn’t have been more than twenty degrees outside, but the stifling air of the office seemed to congeal Peter’s already jumbled thoughts into a single homogeneous mass of jelly. Thursday’s gruff voice from across the room felt like a chisel right to the skull.

“There’s been a break-in in Wolvercote, pop over there and check it out, will you?” he instructed, “seems to be linked to those two burglaries Morse looked over earlier in the week, perhaps you should both go.” He nodded slightly at Morse, who rolled his eyes once Thursday had turned his back. The thought of dragging him away from his precious work made Peter smile.

He stood gingerly, his head still pounding and his brain at risk of dribbling right out of his ears at any sudden movements. Desperately hoping that Morse couldn’t see his pained expression, he turned and started to make his way down the corridor, unrolling his shirt sleeves and pulling on his jacket as he went.

“Sense of urgency would be nice,” he called behind him when he realised that Morse’s footsteps were significantly further behind. He wasn’t in the mood for waiting.

Morse broke into a light jog to catch up with him, swinging his jacket over his shoulder.

It was a spontaneous decision to take the long way around the station; it involved Peter taking a left instead of a right at the end of the hallway and led to a small paved quad sheltered by an overhang of roof that looked out upon a slightly neglected grassy area. Why Peter went this way, he didn’t know (the only time he really used it was when he had a girl to meet out there during his lunch break, for it was quite secluded) but it was too late to turn around, and the confused noise that Morse made was rather satisfying.

“Where are you going?”

“Fancied a detour.”

“Sense of urgency would be nice,” Morse huffed under his breath, mocking Peter’s earlier words. He wanted to bloody punch the man; screw Wolvercote, they could have a nice little fist fight round the back of the station, Peter could own up to it and, before he knew it, he’d be on the bus to London.

No. London was too close, too _findable_. The Scottish Highlands, perhaps. Australia.

“If your aim is to beat me up, I’d suggest somewhere more conspicuous than the back of a police station.”

He thought maybe he would slap Morse (God knows he deserved it- maybe it would wipe that smug smile off his face for once). But he didn’t. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Peter kissed him to teach him a lesson, shut him up, put him in his place. It was anger, mostly, that motivated him, pushing Morse against the wall just as he would if they were fighting. He expected, _wanted_ to be shoved away. Something tucked away at the back of his mind needed that. And something not so tucked away in his mind was quite enjoying this.

What he had _not_ accounted for in his sudden outburst, was Morse kissing _back_ , and now he was in way over his head. There were soft movements making a mess of what Peter had intended to be quick and forceful and over very quickly. Warm breaths and smooth hands and smiles. It was too _nice_ : _nice_ wasn’t the direction Peter had intended. It was harder to pull away than he cared to admit to himself.

“Breathe a word of this,” he panted, shoving Morse once again towards the wall before stepping away to rearrange his shirt, “and I’ll have you out of the force before you know what’s happening.”

“What would I say, that I kissed you back?”

“Piss off.”

The drive was a rather frosty affair; once Peter threw Morse the keys, the only sound was that of the engine. And Morse’s breath, he _breathed_ too much. Everything about Morse was too much; his presence filled the air, stifling, creeping over Peter’s skin. It felt like hot oil. What the hell was wrong with him?

By the time they pulled up outside the house in Wolvercote, Peter was considering moving to the depths of Antarctica.

\- - - - -

He absolutely deserved a drink, given the day he’d had. In fact, he needed far more than a drink, but Hope had bailed on him when he invited her out, so Peter resigned to the bar alone and considered every possible way that he could disappear from Oxford without a trace.

 _That moment_ had been replaying in his mind, almost ceaselessly, for about six hours. He could feel Morse on his skin, wanted to scrub himself clean of it all, to drink until he forgot what Morse tasted like. What on Earth had he been thinking?

He didn’t _like_ Morse. He’d just been cooped up for too long, needed to get his end away. (Hope was normally reliable in moments like these, but women like her had far busier lives than seemed fair.) That’s why he’d done it, kissed Morse, that is: pure boredom and desperation.

He didn’t _like_ Morse. The man was a prick, too arrogant by half, and too smart. And never knew when to bloody stop. One of the main problems he had with the man was that his nutjob theories all turned out _right_ ; near enough every single one resulted in an arrest that Peter alone would have taken far longer to achieve. Jealousy, probably, but anyone in Peter’s position would feel it. Morse needed, for once in his life, to get something utterly wrong.

He didn’t like _men_. Not since he was a teen, lost and hurt and desperate for new ways to disappoint his family. And he’d been drunker back then, when he snuck into college parties and let nature take its course. Drunker, and yet so much more in control than he felt now because, back then, he had a lot more to lose. Now, with a stagnant position in Cowley Station and a lot of memories he was keen to leave behind, an excuse was all he needed.

He didn’t need Morse. Didn’t want him. He told himself that over and over and over.

Not Morse’s dishevelled hair, sharp wit, dazed smile. Soft lips. He didn’t need Morse appearing and buying him a drink without asking, but suddenly that was happening, and it seemed wildly inappropriate, given their situation.

“Morse.”

“Hello, Peter.” Since when had he become _Peter_? He dreaded what was going through Morse’s head at that very moment. Regret? Or, worse, a need for something that Peter could never give him. _It had just been a kiss._

“I… I was just leaving, actually.” He felt like a bloody schoolgirl, the way his knee bounced nervously up and down. His hands were clammy, fingers quivering.

Morse smiled, a terrifyingly powerful smile; just a glimmer of mischief, a knowing that he had all the power in the world. It wasn’t very Morse-like, but made Peter feel rather dizzy, nonetheless. “Of course. One for the road?”

He forced a ‘sure’ before he had time to tell himself what a horrendous idea it was.

“Lovely weather today, don’t you think?” Peter wanted to scream; the small talk was unbearable, smothering. Perhaps things would always be like this from now on: formal, cautious, ‘how’s work’ and ‘nice day’. A scrabble to avoid conversations too personal. He couldn’t complain.

He’d made his bed, and he would lie in it. “Yeah, beautiful.”

“Any more thoughts on the break-in?” Peter shook his head (it was bold of Morse to assume he had been having _any_ intelligent thoughts since lunchtime).

“D’you think it’s linked to the other two?”

Morse shrugged, taking a swig from his glass. “Almost certainly not.” ( _This_ was more like normal, thank God.) When Peter replied with a confused expression, Morse exhaled, grinning. His eyes crinkled when he did this. (Peter despised the fact that he was looking intently enough to notice it.) “See, the two earlier in the week, one in Jericho and the other just down the road from the station, the houses were absolutely turned upside down, but they only took things of value: money, a television set, jewellery and the like. No signs of a targeted attack, they merely picked a house and took all they could, so although they are connected by perpetrator, nothing appears to link the two victims.”

“But the Wolvercote one, that was an absolute sty when we arrived, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, and perhaps whoever did this wants us to think they’re connected. _But_ the woman who lives there reported an album of family photos missing.”

Starting to piece together Morse’s words with the information that he himself had found during his investigation, Peter nodded slightly. “Some sort of revenge thing, then?”

“I believe so. The photos stolen were mostly of her and her late husband, an Oxford don who committed suicide following sexual assault allegations against a student that his wife then covered up.”

“This just to scare her, then? Or is it part of a bigger plan?”

“The latter, I presume.”

“You found the girl yet?”

Morse huffed, glaring at him. “I’m working on it. I’ve got the house under surveillance overnight until we locate her.”

The silence that followed this conversation was acrid and slow, even though the pub around them was relatively busy for a Tuesday night. Peter felt like he was in a bubble, just him and Morse and the not-so-hidden looks that passed between them. The whole bloody place could be on fire and he’s still only see Morse.

Their knees were almost touching. Peter felt sick. Morse’s very existence was enough to make his organs want to pack in, he might as well have keeled over on the spot and died. (It would have made things a lot easier.)

“’M going home,” he forced, trying to ignore how choked his voice sounded, and how his legs wanted to give out at only the slightest bit of weight. It took every ounce of his concentration to stand steadily and stride out of the building without so much as a stumble.

The night air was frigid, biting through his thin coat with ease. Hands buried into pockets, Peter felt a weight lift off him, as if a button had been pressed, the moment he set foot out of the door. He could breathe again.

He knew this path very well, this cold, mindless route between his sparse two-bedroom flat and the nearest source of cheap beer. Recently, he rarely walked this way alone, but the silence and lack of footsteps alongside him tonight was oddly comforting. The very idea that he had to go back to an empty house was the only thing that kept him walking. One foot in front of the other, left at the junction and straight on until his building came into view. Safe.

“Jakes!”

Peter froze dead in his tracks. Morse absolutely deserved a punch, right in his fucking stupid mouth (or maybe not, given how well that went last time). He swung on his heels before Morse could get any closer to him, the feeling of suffocation returning once again. “What?” he barked.

“You left your jacket.” A quick glance down at himself proved this to be correct; under his coat, his blazer was missing, which may explain why he was shivering so violently. He snatched it back with a curt nod and turned purposefully towards home, racing to get out of the grips of Morse’s suffocating aura.

He couldn’t help but notice, though, that there were still footsteps following him. Trailing a safe distance behind, their echo drilling into his skull. “What the fuck do you want?” he yelled, when he couldn’t bear to ignore the noise any longer. Turning angrily on his heels for the second time, he was faced with a rather wide-eyed Morse. How _dare_ he look shocked? What was wrong with him? The man was hardly a social being, that was true enough, but this took the piss. He really had no clue what was up between them, did he? Or perhaps he didn’t care. Liked watching Peter squirm under his gaze, shudder at contact, utterly undone.

That, or he was just a prick.

“I’m walking home.”

“No, you’re not, you’re following me!”

“Or, perhaps, we just happen be going in the same direction. It wouldn’t be too far-fetched, would it?”

 _He’d made his bed, and he would lie in it_. Their footsteps synchronised, something that made Peter’s skin crawl. How _dare_ things be normal, how _dare_ Morse exist so close to him?

Peter stopped when he reached his building (they were past the point of goodbyes) and desperately fumbled for his keys in the pocket of his jacket before Morse could say or do anything.

“See you tomorrow, Peter.” He ignored it. His heart stopped as he suddenly realised that his keys were nowhere to be found, and it was a desperate scrabble to hide the panic from his face. He could deal with this later, but not while Morse was hanging around like they were _friends_.

“I… Tomorrow, yeah.” What the hell would he do without his keys?

“Blazer pocket.” _Fuck you._

Peter took in Morse’s face in the darkness, the way the streetlights’ glow fell over it as if they were trying to frame him as this innocent, smiling, skin-crawlingly perfect thing. In fact, this took him so off guard that when Morse kissed him, quick and quiet, he _almost_ leaned in. It was the contact itself that snapped him out of it, sending him stumbling backwards.

He should yell, push Morse away, storm off. It was dangerous, doing this in plain sight, and it was wrong. They weren’t _this_.

“I suppose we’re even, then,” Morse mumbled, as if this were a joke to him. A game. A casual flirt like this wasn’t the absolute end of the world.

\- - - - -

He didn’t go into work the next morning, citing illness when he called up Bright’s office. It wasn’t not entirely a lie, because he slept all of two hours and couldn’t keep his breakfast down. Lying in his vest and pants on the sofa, something unimportant blaring from the television, his life really was falling apart, wasn’t it? First Blenheim, now he was taking a sick day over bloody Morse? Jesus.

He was all Peter could feel, taste, all he could see when his eyes were closed, or open, for that matter. Yes, kissing him was an action borne out of anger, but it had been a bloody nice kiss, nonetheless. So had the second, despite its brevity and Peter’s foul mood. That man had no damn right being such a good kisser. All soft and warm and… _Christ_.

He had a crush on Endeavour bloody Morse.

And he’d been telling himself all day that they had only kissed out of boredom, frustration, that he’d needed the outlet of a pair of lips on his own. That he hadn’t had Morse’s face in mind while they’d done it (in his memories, he projected Hope’s face onto it all, but Hope didn’t have stubble, nor such clumsy hands). It was an utter lie; kissing Morse, and Morse specifically, was rather hot.

What could Morse be feeling? He hadn’t shied away, not felt the same inhibitions that were bubbling away inside Peter. But maybe he had been drunk, or as lonely and desperate as Peter wished _he_ was. And even if they did both… _like_ each other, what could be done? A fumble in the dark when they found the time, well, it would be unbearable, really. To be unofficial, a mistake. But how could they be anything else? Peter could hardly keep it a secret, for people would surely question him. The typical ladies’ man Sergeant Jakes suddenly goes cold turkey and is never seen with a girl again? What would they think of him?

And to pretend, to keep up appearances, with a bird he had no interest in on his arm… the guilt would tear him to shreds.

What did it matter anyway? Morse was Morse, and Peter was Peter. Neither would pass this lingering middle-ground of _kissing you was nice, but we’ll never speak about it_. He thought he’d be sick if it happened again. The temptation, _God_ , everything he could have on a platter before him, with nothing keeping him from it but the knowledge that he’d never be able to stop. Not until, inevitably, word got out. It would be his story against Morse’s, and they both knew who would win if Thursday was the judge. Bright, however, would be a closer call.

The only thing Peter could be certain of was that he was utterly _gone_ for Endeavour Morse.

That night, when he slept, the face bearing down on him wasn’t one of the nightmarish ones from his memories, but a rather smug-looking one, with puffy lips and tousled hair and a soft voice that rumbled over him like white water. It left him in a rather compromising position by the time his alarm woke him for work the next morning, until he took a cold shower, that was. Today would be absolute torture.

He didn’t talk to Morse, unless it was necessary. Definitely didn’t make eye contact, at risk of collapsing on the spot. The man seemed to be trying to make Peter’s life utter hell. _Lingering_. Bloody hanging around his desk when he didn’t need to. Staring. And breathing too damn much.

He was trying so hard to forget it all, but that was nigh on impossible when _it all_ sat opposite him and typed really loudly. His lurching stomach betrayed every effort to keep himself under control, meaning by lunch he was an utter mess. He’d even resorted to running nervous hands through his hair, a habit which he had quashed as a teen in an effort to exude confidence through his appearance that he hadn't yet been able to muster in his words.

Lunch couldn’t come soon enough. When Thursday told Morse that it was time to head over to the pub, Peter breathed a sign of relief, standing up rather too suddenly (he winced at the guttural screech that his chair made against the floorboards) and striding in the direction of the bathroom.

He chose the one on the top floor, for it was far less frequently used. He could pace aimlessly and rinse his face over and over when it got too flushed and red to look normal. He needed to go home; would Bright let him? The only ongoing cases, aside from menial issues that could be dealt with by uniform, were those burglaries, so surely, he was at least slightly dispensable?

 _Hello Sir, could I have the afternoon off? Only I’m hopelessly in love with Morse, and I might snog him at his desk if I’m left alone with him any longer_.

“Peter?” Jesus. Perhaps if he collapsed right here, he could get out of this interaction before he did something he regretted. “Are you alright?”

“Fine.” _I love you_.

“No, you’re not.” Morse stepped closer. “You’re green, for God’s sake, and you’ve been fidgeting all morning.”

“’S nothing, really.” _I love you_.

He heard a shaky breath (loud and grating, hot) and the rustling of fabric as Morse shoved his hands into his pockets for lack of anything else to do. He was nervous. “I’m sorry.”

Peter looked up, met his eyes (a mistake). “What?”

“I shouldn’t have… look, things on Tuesday got out of hand. I just read you wrong, messed you about, it’s my fault.” _What?_ “You don’t look well, so I’d be happy to pick up your paperwork if you need to go home and rest.”

“Why would I want that? What about this is your fault? What do you mean?”

Morse was staring at the ground, slumped against the wall like he was collapsing into himself. The next words that came out of his mouth were crackly and soft, with a breathy weakness to them that made Peter’s heart break (he was so _gone_ for this bloody man, it was ridiculous). “ _Don’t make me say it._ ”

“Morse?” _I love you_.

“I should leave…” _I love you!_ He turned, shoulders hanging defeated, body barely seeming to hold itself up. With each heavy step, he was slipping out of Peter’s reach.

It wasn’t sensible. _Them_. It could never work out, especially not with the two of them working together. Peter was fully aware that he would end up with his heart broken, but it had happened before. He’d recover. They’d be caught, inevitably; Thursday would notice first, because he watched Morse like a bloody hawk. He’d be out of the job before his feet could touch the ground.

Peter didn’t care one bit.

“Wait!” Time froze, that one word confirming the decision he was about to make. To throw absolutely everything he cared for to the wind, except _one thing_. “Stay?”

Morse looked like he was going to die and, had the situation been less emotionally charged, perhaps Peter would have found some joy in the knowledge of what he could do to the man with a single word. Instead, _he_ thought he might die as well, especially if he kept not being able to fucking breathe.

All it took was for their eyes to meet, and Peter was launching himself against this crumpled mess of a man. He missed Morse’s lips by quite a margin at first, but the physical contact was all he needed for the tension in his muscles that had been building for two days to melt away into nothing. He clawed for anything he could reach, eventually settling with a handful of shirt to steady him as he snogged Morse like his life depended on it (and, perhaps, it did).

He decided that Morse’s habit of breathing so much, and so loudly, was a rather nice one now. Each rattling sigh, faint whisper of words that didn’t matter in meaning so much as the mere _noise_ of them, all of it was so perfect. The warmth against him, the way Morse clawed at his hair ( _bloody hell_ ) the pure frenzy of it all. The kisses on his jaw and neck were desperate and hungry; he would have done anything Morse asked if he could just keep _this_ moment for ever and ever in his mind.

But it was Peter’s last shred of dignity that pulled him back (the way Morse leaned forwards to reach him again was far too irresistible for him not to return for a quick peck). With gentle hands, he straightened Morse’s collar and tie and flattened the worst of the crinkles he had made in the shirt. Morse let out a gorgeous, breathy noise in protest, which was silenced with a much gentler kiss than before. “Anyone could walk in, you know?” He made sure that the smile he accompanied with this comment was so genuine that Morse would have no doubt that this was most certainly not the end of it all. “Mine, later?”

“Do you want that?”

Peter didn’t dignify that question with an answer, because Morse was either teasing him, or he was an utter idiot. He could never tell, when it came to things like this.

Once Morse had left to catch up with Thursday in the pub, it took Peter about a quarter of an hour to make himself look remotely unkissed, the same time again before his fingers stopped trembling. He didn’t eat lunch. He’d have something with Morse later that night, because Christ knows the man needed a good meal. It would be a date, he supposed.

The thought made him smile very faintly to himself.

\- - - - -

Peter wondered whether he’d dreamed it all. Morse hid it all well, surprisingly so, for a man as highly-strung and awkward as him. While they were making routine enquiries around a new break-in, this time at the college, Morse caught his eye only once or twice. Perhaps he’d just had too much to drink again, and this was some feverish, hungover dream that left him numb by morning.

But the way Morse’s hand brushed his very deliberately as they passed each other was very real indeed. As was the look he received once they entered the car.

“What?” Morse ignored this, merely smiling and shaking his head, before driving back to the station in silence.

It was these events that led them to their current position, curled up against each other on Peter’s sofa, not talking or even drinking, just existing in each other’s company. Not a typical date, by Peter’s standards. A horribly greasy fish and chips (Peter was glad to find out that Morse did, in fact, have the physical ability to eat food; it significantly widened the range of possibilities for future dates) followed by some inevitable and rather heated kissing as soon as the front door clicked shut. And then dozing in the living room.

So, yes, it wasn’t a typical date, but Morse was far from typical. And in any case, it was one of the nicest afternoons of Peter’s life, so typical didn’t matter.

He was leaning back against the arm of the sofa, a wad of cushions crumpling behind his back which made him feel slightly less like his spine was about to collapse. Morse tucked perfectly against him, slotting into place, breathing warmly into Peter’s chest, on which his hands rested with barely noticeable pressure. Enough. More than enough.

“I missed you, you know.” It was out of Peter’s mouth before he knew he’d even thought it, and he would normally have tensed up at such a slip. He didn’t expect a response as he left it hanging in the air between them, it was merely something he needed to get off his chest. He _had_ missed Morse, more than he cared to admit.

“I’m sorry.”

“Morse, you absolute arse, you can’t seriously be apologising for being in prison!” For the razor-sharp wit that he exuded at work, his complete inability to form sensible assumptions about how human beings functioned was beyond belief. “But in all seriousness, I thought about talking to you so much, I don’t know why I didn’t at least write… don’t think I could face the words.”

“And now?”

“It’s in the past. I’d rather not. Things are better now.”

Morse smiled, but he wore it differently to normal. Less tense, the usual creases of worry leaving his face. “Good.” He appeared to consider his next sentence for a worryingly long time, preceding it with a shaky sigh. “I’d intended to come back and see you once I was done at Bl- up _there_. I would have stayed if things were different, you were in an awful way and… well, I knew you wouldn’t want to talk but I’d been relying on the idea that I could come straight back and make sure you got home safe. Didn’t want you drinking yourself to death.”

He couldn’t cry. Jesus, he’d rather launch himself into the river with a coat full of bricks than cry. Although, of all the people in the world to sob in front of, Morse would be the best (he’d moved significantly higher up the list since Tuesday). Morse had seen him at his absolute worst point, in his adult life at least, so a little sniffle wouldn’t phase him. “I don’t remember going home, but… well, I woke up there, so I assume I found my way.”

Peter panicked for a moment when they fell into silence, for there were hints of memories seeping through the mental door behind which they were stashed, and it wouldn’t do for them to flood out when he wasn’t alone and wasted. But no, the gentle rhythm of Morse’s breathing, the fingers tracing circles on his chest through his shirt, they grounded him. Kept him mostly sane.

“I think I worked it all out when I was locked up,” Morse mumbled suddenly, an afterthought.

“What?”

“I spent so much time, for the first few days, worrying about the state I’d left you in. I knew Thursday was stable, because his wife wrote to me occasionally with updates. But _you_ , you could have been anywhere for all I knew. I half expected you to have left town, or the country even.”

“I can’t say it didn’t cross my mind,” he chuckled.

“And… I realised how different the station would be without you, as much of a prick as you can be when you want to. It made me wish I had been less insufferable.”

It was all very cheesy, but Peter’s heart fluttered, nonetheless, and he gently kissed Morse’s forehead. The hair that brushed his nose was soft and warm, like a puppy. He wished he could run his fingers through it to mess it up (as had no doubt been done to his own hair) but, alas, it was far too wild already for his hands to make much of an effect.

“I started to realise that I might love you, just a little bit.”

Peter’s heart jumped. “Just a little?”

“Maybe more than a little,” a blushing Morse admitted in a soft, breathy voice, and _Christ_ it was like silk. Like butter on crumpets, sun-gilded clouds, it felt like being kissed.

“I should bloody hope so, _absence makes_.” Morse blushed.

Near enough every decision that had led Peter to this point was one of frustration and a lack of giving a shit about everything he’d worked for falling apart. Borne of anger, and with the overarching aim of fucking everything up so badly that his decision on whether to leave Oxford was made for him. And, by some beautiful twist of fate, he landed himself _here_. He wondered why he didn’t make irrational decisions more often; he’d never need to think about anything again if pure fate could leave him in such blissful positions as this.

But, anyway, back to the point: he’d been pissed off. At Morse’s return, at his own lack of purpose, at _life_. And he’d been so willing to throw everything away that he’d accidentally ended up with something he could never bear to lose. It was an alien feeling to Peter, the idea that he genuinely wanted whatever _this_ was to work. He would lie until his throat was raw if it meant he could come home to this every night. Tell people he was with a married girl, that it all had to be kept quiet. Not perfect, but it would be enough.

 _Anything_ would be enough, so long as Morse was involved.

“Peter, your hair’s a mess.”

“Pot, kettle.”

\- - - - -

Things were a lot easier than Peter had expected. The routine they settled into, the unspoken rules that settled around the two of them like snow with very little thought or discussion. Everything to be contained very strictly at either his flat or Morse’s. And when they greeted each other in the morning, as if they hadn’t woken up next to each other when Morse had left to pick up Thursday, Peter restrained his smile enough to maintain the image of barely-friends.

He’d make Morse tea when he was bored of sitting at his desk, and occasionally left him a piece of toast on days that he was looking particularly malnourished. That was his main mission, amongst all this: get Morse to bloody _eat_. Properly, regularly, _at least_ enough that he wasn’t on the verge of collapse by the end of each day. In return, Morse would frown disapprovingly every time Peter lit up another cigarette, but that was probably to disguise how enthralled he was by the sight. He didn’t hide it very well, and when Peter was feeling daring, he would exploit this just a little (but enough that he was scolded later that day, which was a rather fair exchange, Peter thought).

Naturally, they did get on significantly better at work than they had ever done previously, but when Thursday picked up on this, he merely expressed his pleasure at them finally being civil with one another. Peter spent more and more of his lunches in the pub with Morse and the Inspector, primarily with the intention of pestering Morse until he bought some real food rather than just beer.

Morse walked the line between normality and alcohol dependency like a tightrope; it couldn’t pair well with his tendency to skip a whole day of meals when he was ‘too busy’. Peter hoped to kill two birds with one sandwich (every day for the rest of Morse’s damn life if he had to). And many plates of biscuits. And fish and chips.

He might start leaving Tupperware pots full of casserole in Morse’s fridge. _Bloody hell_ , sometimes he couldn’t tell whether he was going out with Morse or was his bloody mother.

Time passed faster than it had any right to; a week turned into a month, and suddenly Peter couldn’t remember what it was like to _not_ sneak glances across the office, or brush hands when they were out and about on a case. Hope must have got the gist of it in the end, seeing as she stopped calling, although she did still smile at him when they bumped into each other. It stung, slightly, not being able to explain to her, and Peter would have done if the circumstances were different, but she’d be fine. She deserved better, anyway.

Unsurprisingly, Thursday was the first to notice something fishy going on. Peter never worked out quite what gave them away, presumably a combination of things that gathered in the man’s mind until they could no longer be excused as just friendship. One look or comment too many, bound to add up over time. Being asked into the Inspector’s office, on his own, was rare enough to get his heart pounding, even before the man had said anything.

“Sir?”

“Sergeant,” Thursday nodded in greeting, “take a seat, by all means.”

“Wouldn’t Morse be more useful, Sir? Assuming this is about the case, that is; _he’s_ the one who worked out it was mirroring Hamlet.”

A very uncomfortable silence fell over the room, and Jakes took a long drag from his cigarette. It was as if he could see sentences forming and crumbling inside Thursday’s head as he fumbled for what to say. “It’s not about the case.” He followed the trail of smoke rising from his pipe, determinedly not looking at Peter’s confused expression. “But… but it is about Morse.”

It hit him, then, like a bloody train. He thought he’d be ready for it, but the fear that crawled up his throat was like nothing he had ever felt or imagined. “ _Ah_.” And when Thursday did nothing but sit with expectant eyes, he choked “it’s not Morse’s fault, for Christ’s sake I don’t care what happens to me as long as he keeps his job.”

“Steady on, Jakes.”

“What?” He was shaking. His cigarette had begun to burn down uncomfortably close to his fingers.

“While I don’t fancy seeing you two getting careless, I’m hardly going to rat you out.”

Peter breathed finally, which was nice. It was a shaky breath, and shallow, too, but at least he wasn’t gradually turning blue anymore. He chucked the glowing stub of his cigarette into Thursday’s ashtray. “I’m sorry,” he gasped, the words falling out of his mouth before he could stop them. It sounded suspiciously like a sob, although vigorous pre-emptive blinking pushed back any potential tears.

“Now, now Sergeant. I only need to take one look at Morse to know how much happier he is.” Peter grinned, very glad that the Inspector’s fatherly instincts had kicked in. “I should have known something was up when he started bringing his own lunch in.”

“It made me hungry to bloody look at him, I had to at least _try_ and get some food into him.”

The sharp trill of the telephone reminded them that there were things in the world other than Endeavour Morse, which resulted in an eye roll from Thursday. “Off you go then, Sergeant, I’m sure you have plenty to be getting on with.”

And that was that. Thursday knew, and it was fine.

\- - - - -

Who would have known that, a few weeks later, Peter Jakes would be buying tickets to a bloody _opera_? If anyone heard about this, they’d think he had gone well and truly off the rails. It was bad enough forcing himself to endure it in short bouts when Morse needed it for his concentration (although he usually had to leave within a matter of minutes at risk of his eardrums starting to bleed). Now he was spending _his_ hard-earned money on something akin to torture, because he learned that Morse hadn’t properly celebrated a birthday since his mother died and that was simply out of order.

Love had turned him into a soppy bastard.

The girl working at the box office seemed to think he was only there to have a natter, and spent more time asking about the girlfriend he was supposedly taking to the opera than she did selling the tickets to him. “Lucky lady, isn’t she?”

“Yeah,” he spat, taking the tickets from her hand alongside his change, and shoving them deep into his pockets. The distant chime of a clock tower reminded Peter that his lunch break was nearing its end, and he quickened his pace slightly, hoping to return to the office before Morse did so that he had a chance to slip the tickets into an envelope inside his desk drawer. Surprises were bloody exhausting.

But he was in love, and in-love people do nice things for each other. And Morse spent far too much of his time looking sad in the corner of the room as one of his scratchy operas played (Jakes wasn’t arrogant enough to believe he could fix every problem Morse faced just by snogging him and taking him to operas, but he’d give it a damn good try). His birthday was in a few months but, of course, Peter wanted to buy the tickets as far in advance as possible in case they sold out (he wasn’t exactly an expert in this area, but he felt that if anywhere in the country would be hosting a sell-out opera, it would be Oxford). As it happened, the show was only a couple of days before Morse’s actual birthday, which could only be a good omen.

“He’s gotta be a bit of a fairy, hasn’t he?” was the first thing Peter heard as he walked into the station, and his stomach had never twisted more violently than it did in that moment. A huddle of uniformed officers stood in the corridor drinking coffee and finishing their cigarettes as their lunch hour ended. _They’re not talking about you. Ignore them_. He dug his fingernails into his palms and tried to shut them out, but the words “it’s the bloody opera, plain weird” were the last straw.

He could see Trewlove, that new WPC (she seemed nice and Morse got on well with her, which was good enough for Peter) glaring at the group of men from the other side of the room over a steaming mug of tea. It was enough of a reminder that not the entire world was stacked against him and Morse to build his confidence further; the impulse was a burning sensation at the back of his neck, and it was all he could do to maintain an air of composure as he approached the group. “Mind elaborating, boys?”

The tallest of the men had the audacity to look shocked. “Morse, Sir, wouldn’t you agree?” Rage seethed in Peter’s gut, but despite the voice in his head screaming at him to back down, he faced the men with a stoic expression.

“No.”

“What?”

“It’s a simple word, constable.” The tickets felt like they were burning a hole in Peter’s pocket as he spoke, but they gave him a sort of courage that he rarely felt. “If I hear another word about Morse, who, may I remind you, is your _superior_ , then I will have you out of this job before you can _blink_.”

“It’s only a joke, Sarge. And he’s a constable, just like us.”

The damn cheek of it was infuriating. “I don’t see him wearing uniform, do you?” (Not that it would be a bad thing as such… now was most certainly _not_ the time for such thoughts.) “And, as you clearly know, _I_ am _your_ Sergeant, and I don’t tolerate this sort of fuckery in my office, _is that clear_?”

A chorus of “Yes Sir” was music to his ears, so he gave the constables one last glare before turning on his heels to enter the office. He’d probably report them to Mr Bright later, but his stomach was growling, and he knew for a fact that there were only two gingernuts left in the communal biscuit tin.

It was only when he had the biscuits in his hand that he noticed Morse hovering at his desk, white as a sheet. Peter’s heart sunk; how much had he heard? At the very least, he’d be pissed that Peter put them at risk by reacting so extremely, but there was also the distinct possibility that the altercation would scare him off altogether.

Peter told himself he was overthinking it. “You okay?” He mumbled, not making eye contact as he crossed the room.

“Fine.”

“Sorry.”

Morse mouthed “thank you.” Peter left both biscuits on Morse’s desk, and made his way towards Bright’s office.

The Superintendent was attempting to end a phone call when Peter entered, but greeted him with a nod, nonetheless. “I assure you, Sir, I’m doing what I can… no, not as of yet… yes, I will keep you informed… of course, thank you for your time, goodb- well, _yes_ that is what I just told you… _goodbye_ , Sir.” He slammed down the receiver with a blank expression, before aiming a half-hearted smile at Peter. “Now, I assume you’re here to tell be about the altercation I just witnessed through my window?”

He nodded. “Some uniformed officers were making derogatory comments about Morse, accusing him of being a fairy and all. I told them it wouldn’t be tolerated.”

“Damned impertinence is what that is, is Morse alright?”

Peter shrugged, trying desperately to hide how much he wished he knew the answer to that question. “’M not sure how much of it he heard, but I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“I assure you, I do not take this issue lightly. There will be action taken to prevent such vile comments being made by _anybody_ working under this roof.” Peter could have hugged the Superintendent right there and then. The realisation that he had people who were technically on his and Morse’s side was an indescribable weight off his shoulders.

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Look after him, Jakes,” Bright’s tone was suddenly much softer, “Christ knows he needs it.” Slightly taken off guard, Peter fumbled for words for a moment, wishing he had lit a cigarette to occupy his nervously twitching fingers. “I’m not blind, you know.”

“Sir?”

“You and Morse, I’m not _entirely_ stupid… Make a go of it, for his sake as much as yours.”

“I mean to, Sir.”

As he turned to leave the room, Peter couldn’t help but smile slightly, a barely noticeable upturning of the lips because Thursday and Bright knew, and were on their side, Morse was safe (at work, at the very least) and maybe opera wouldn’t be that bad after all.

\- - - - -

It was obvious that something was up with Morse, because for the first time in quite possibly his entire life, he left work on time. The absence of his usual excuse that he was ‘just finishing up’ (see also: ‘I’ll be here for at least another two hours’) took both Peter and Thursday aback, and the Inspector grabbed the opportunity to offer him a life home. He even extended the same offer to Peter, which was rather nice, and he could tell that there was underlying concern in the man’s actions, because Morse had barely uttered a word since lunch.

Fred Thursday was vastly underappreciated.

“You really don’t have to, Sir, I’m fine walking,” Morse tried to insist, but his dazed state didn’t really help his argument.

“Nonsense,” Thursday asserted, “I insist.”

Morse opened his mouth to argue ( _typical_ ) but seemingly decided it wasn’t worth the effort, as he sat rather heavily onto the backseat of the car and attempted to make himself comfortable despite the limited legroom. Peter began to wish he’d gone to the pub instead, because he could feel the electric aura brewing around Morse like a cloud, and the mystery of what was going through his mind was nothing short of terrifying. And it probably wasn’t the kind of thing that was solvable with beer.

They were dropped off at their respective flats with a knowing nod from Thursday, and Peter _almost_ stayed put. He could so easily go home and finish off the stew he’d left in the fridge and get a good night’s bloody sleep. But his feet (and his heart) pulled him in the direction of Morse’s flat, so that was where he went.

He took the stairs to Morse’s bedsit with hesitation, skipping the fifth and eighth steps because he knew all to well the awful creaking sound they made under even the tiniest amount of pressure. It was probably paranoia, but Peter knew that the fewer neighbours were aware of how frequently he visited Morse, the better. This same paranoia caused him to knock as gently as he could on Morse’s door, barely enough to be heard but still painfully loud in the echoic stairwell.

Peter smiled gently when Morse’s face appeared at the door and was glad to see that his presence evoked a similar response in the other man. “Hello, Peter,” was all he seemed able to muster.

“You going to invite me in, or should I pull up a chair out here?” Morse exhaled in laughter (which was at least _some_ progress) and stepped aside to welcome Peter into his flat.

 _Flat_ was perhaps a strong word to use for the two-room shell that Morse inhabited which, to the untrained eye, appeared to be full of litter and approximately six items of furniture. The mess wasn’t as bad as it could have been, because Peter often took the liberty of clearing up a little pile of tat (or a worryingly large stack of empty bottles) when he stayed over. It was still, however, a bit of a sty. Cosy, yes, but Peter wished he had more space to put his feet up on the coffee table without crumpling stacks of paperwork.

Once the front door closed behind him, Peter hung his coat over the back of a chair and wrapped Morse into a forceful hug. For quite a while, it was enough to just stand there on the rug with their arms clutching each other, and his face buried against Morse’s neck. But, eventually, Morse extricated himself and focused instead on loosening Peter’s tie.

“Steady on,” Peter mumbled, which he accompanied with a heavy peck on the forehead. “I wanted to talk to you, actually.”

Morse froze, confused, and took a few steps back. It was only when the colour drained from the man’s face that Peter realised how his intentions could have been misconstrued (Morse had clearly had enough misfortune in love to jump to pessimistic conclusions) but the damage had already been done. “Oh.” Morse visibly sagged before him, eyes down, shoulders stooped.

Peter rushed forwards and scooped Morse’s face into his hands. “God, before you start putting words into my mouth, let me finish. I wanted to talk to you about this afternoon, to check how you were holding up.” The relief lifting from Morse’s face was almost comical (although the very thought that he could doubt how desperately _gone_ Peter was for him added a dash of melancholy).

“Fine, you?”

“You don’t seem fine, Morse; you haven’t looked right since.” And then, when Morse remained utterly stoic, he added “I’m worried about you,” for good measure.

It appeared to work, because Morse’s mouth opened as if he were about to speak, but it hung there limply for a moment before anything came out. “Really, Peter, it’s nothing, it just caught me off guard, that’s all.” His hands danced along the collar of Peter’s shirt as he fumbled for the words he needed. “Mainly by how much it scared me, I think; I thought I was prepared for it and I’ve certainly heard much worse, but it’s different when what they’re saying is true.”

“But it’s not true, not _really_.”

“Well I _do_ like opera, and I’m clearly a little bit queer, so I seem to be running two for two at the moment.”

Jakes snorted and gathered Morse up into his arms. He felt so tiny here, so thin and bony and soft and crumpled, and he sagged against Peter like a sack of potatoes. “I _don’t_ like opera, and I appear to be a little queer myself, Morse. Correlation not causation.”

Then Morse captured his lips with such a sweet desperation that Jakes could only clutch at the man’s shirt and attempt to continue breathing. They moved together instinctively, fast and slow all at once, breathy and silent and wandering, perfect in a way Peter knew he could never deserve.

His mind suddenly clearing for a moment, Peter pulled away slightly. “Speaking of opera… give me a sec, Morse.” He turned on his heels and bent over to rummage through his coat pockets for the now very familiar feeling of the small card tickets. “Look, I'm doing this pretty far in advance because I know you’re not a birthday person and I can send them back if you want, but…” he trailed off, suddenly feeling embarrassed and rather terrified that Morse would hate the gift. Noting Morse’s confusion, he silently thrust the tickets out in front of him and stared at the ground to hide his reddening cheeks.

“Were these expensive?”

“No!” he said it suspiciously quickly (they _hadn’t_ been expensive, but if Morse had any more reasons to reject the present then-)

Morse kissed him very suddenly, as if he could hear Peter overthinking and couldn’t find the words to shut him up. “I’ve been wanting to see this for _months_ ; how did you know?”

“Wild bloody guess. All sound the same to me, so I assumed you’d like anything.” Morse chuckled, and held him tightly.

“You’ve got much to learn, Peter Jakes.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

**Author's Note:**

> MY GUYS i have spent far too long on this fic given it's exam season but who cares I'm so invested in my sons & their happiness. After my last morse/jakes fic stole so much of my sleep I was planning on taking a break from writing for a bit but after I got sO many lovely comments I literally decided to dive right into fic number 2. Oops. Tbh I had no inspiration but then I was listening to ruin my life by zara larsson and my brain was like WRITE AN ANGSTY ONE so that's what I started and most certainly is NOT how it ended up. (Also, I genuinely aimed for 5-6k words so how it got to 10k absolutely baffles me.)
> 
> I've had to keep rewatching old s1 and 2 episodes every now and then to get into writing Jake's character so sorry if his speech reads a bit weirdly in places I struggled a lot with the conversations between them.
> 
> Anyways, lads I'm so proud of this fic that scenes from it keep appearing in my dreams so I really hope yall like it? Honestly, writing the kisses in this was SO fun, but I got writers block in the middle of like every conversation which is why this has taken me like 4 weeks longer than planned. I hope it doesn't drag on too long I just had so many iDEAS.
> 
> (Not very well proofread sorry - I originally stated writing this in present tense before i changed my mind so if I've missed bits where I slip back into it then pls point them out - also the fact that this is eaxctly 10k words on microsoft word but not on a03 pains me more than you will ever know.)
> 
> (Title from just like heaven by the cure because: the cure, that's all the reason i need.)
> 
> x


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